How to have a doggie bed

Ever since I mentioned that I sleep on a doggie bed (i.e., a mattress on the floor), I've been inundated with requests from readers. They say, "Oh, Keith, I want to have a doggie bed too! But I don't know how to handle my fears of...you know." I've probably gotten hundreds of such emails, if not thousands.

It's really quite simple. Here are the Three Rules of Having a Doggie Bed:

First Rule:

There are no spiders anywhere in your home. Why would they be? You're a very clean person.

Second Rule:

There is no such thing as a spider. Spiders come from dreams. They aren't real. So never worry about encountering a spider.

Third Rule

Get white sheets and blankets so you'll be able to see the spiders clearly as they march onto your doggie bed.

Special Bonus Rule:

Never look at this photo.

Dog's image perfect for heaven that welcomes dogs

Dog would laugh at the idea of his image being synonymous with dogs going to heaven, but it could work! BTW, the reason he's smiling in the photograph at left is because he thinks crosses are so funny. They don't have religion on his planet.

Still, isn't it uncanny how perfectly this image would work for the new push to get dogs into a Catholic version of heaven? And of course, the real fun here is how much Dog would laugh about this use of his image. And that's the very meaning of fun.

In case you missed the true story about Dog's visit to Earth, just pump dog into the search box at the top left of this page. (You'll get a few irrelevant posts but most will be about Dog. Yippee!) And if you're too feeble to search for a simple word like dog, here's a post that explains who he is.

Sadly, now that I've raised the topic of Dog, I must reveal something that I've hidden for many months. Readers who followed this story from its inception probably suspect what I'm about to say. Yes, I have terrible news for you. After Dog arrived on Earth he took a long, close look at humans and turned around and went back to his own galaxy. He didn't explain himself; he didn't have to. We are unworthy to join the Federation of Sentient Planets. We're just too damned aggressive and greedy (and dumb).

This news crushed me...but I'm still in telepathic contact with Dog. So really, you missed out; I didn't. Sad, that. Hmmm, I think I'll put my Lid on and go talk to Dog right now. Oh, joy!

U.S. behind the times

So how come we don't have a giant Xmas butt-plug in a public plaza in the United States? I mean, Paris has one. Why don't we?

The United States used to lead the world. "Not no more", as my local friends like to say. Jeez, I really want us to get one, like for Rockefeller Center or something. Real trees are so tired.

(And have you noticed that it's already Xmas? I've seen several Xmas commercials on TV lately. Santa's almost here! Speaking of which, have you read "Xmas Carol". Gasp! You haven't?! You poor thing, you!)

New moderation rule for the blog

In light of the Ebola epidemic, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take the temperature of all commenters before allowing them to post anything. I'm sorry but I must protect my own health and that of visitors to this blog.

So beginning immediately, another layer of moderation has been added. Here's how it will play out. Once you've successfully identified the usual Captcha characters, a thermometer will thrust itself from your computer screen. Simply place your mouth around the thermometer and slip it snugly under your tongue. Be patient! The computer will provide an alert to let you know when you're done.

If you hear a pleasant chime, this means you do not have a temperature and thus do not have Ebola. Click "Lucky" and your comment will be posted.

If, on the other hand, you hear the clang of a mournful church bell, get thee to a nunnery or a hospital, your choice. (Pssst: the hospital will probably work out better, you know, in the long run.)

That is all. You may now return to your normal lives.

Can you hear it?

Listen. You hear it, don't you?

Phshwiiit. Swiish. Floop.

That's the sound of bloggers everywhere pulling pants on over their boxers! That's right - we're wearing clothes! It's time to gear up for Autumn.

Listen! The sound is louder now. More bloggers must be waking up and donning their gay apparel. It's such a beautiful thing. Someone should put words to it and make a song.

Phshwiiit. Swiish. Floop.

The sounds of the season. How I love them!

A peek in the mirror

You know how you're having a nice day, and then you walk past a mirror in your house -- and see a pair of jockey shorts draped over your shoulder?

And you realize that you put them there when you were folding the laundry three hours ago?

And then it hits you that you've just gone to the library and the supermarket looking like this?

Glamour. It's so elusive! Stay classy, people. I always do.

Studies suggest...

Studies suggest that many people reading this blog are not actually alive. These "people" are zombies. This is something up with which I cannot put. Thus I must determine if you, the person reading this, are alive. But how can I do this?

Wait a minute! I'll bet zombies can't get through the captcha verification system (those squiggly letters you have to decipher in order to post a comment). That's the ticket! Okay here's the deal. If you are not a zombie...prove it by commenting on this post.

UPDATE

I posted this two full minutes ago and there hasn't been one comment yet. OMD, it's true -- you're all zombies!

I may have to rethink my blog in light of this new information. I'll get back to you.

Slight misunderstanding

I saw a cut-off headline on the NY Daily News page. It said:

"Wounded woman reveals most terrifying moments face-to-face with Santa..."

I thought, "Now what the hell has Santa Claus done!?" But it was a reference to the mass murderer in Santa Monica. I don't think I'm in prime form today.

The wisdom of the aged

Listen, you young whippersnappers. At some point (soonish), I'm going to share my old-guy wisdom with you. I haven't quite figured out what I'm going to say, but each pronouncement will be a genuine pearl of wisdom. Would you like to see a flash of the kind of thing I might flaunt? Probably at the top of my list would be something like this:

1. For heaven's sake, blot the cottage cheese with a tissue if it's wet on top.

So don't worry. Pretty soon I'll publish my final list of Important Things for Young People to Know. And then life, which seemed so hard, will become easy. You'll have the key, the code, the wisdom. You'll be set.

Oy: a perfect word

If you live in Manhattan you have not one, but many, Jewish friends. It just happens. And if you've had these friends for a number of years, you know all about the word "oy". Well, maybe not all. But you understand the word a lot better than your typical goyim.

First of all, oy is not as simple as it seems when you see it written down. It's just joy without the J, right? Oy, you gentiles! You just don't get it.

Oy is not a simple word. For one thing, it has at least four, perhaps five, syllables. If you're from Iowa or Arkansas, you probably didn't know that. It's a deep word, with its own world of pronunciations and uses. Yes, it's perfect to express casual dismay, which is the way it's usually heard. But it also expresses fear and foreboding (and surprise) -- and does so beautifully. (This is one of the times when the number of syllables grows). Oy expresses hopelessness like a jewel. It is the perfect word for the verklempt.

I could go on and on, particularly about the pronunciation. But it would be far better if you did a few years of field work. You really can't teach the use of the word; you have to live with it.

I'd like to close with a final thought that expresses the utter perfection of the word "oy". Oy is the yin of yo's yang. If you had any doubts about the almost supernatural nature of the term, surely this observation blew your doubts away. If not, oy.

Passingly

The headline said, "Biden Swears in Schatz". I thought, "Hmmm. Must be a Yiddish dialect."

Funny way to say you're hurt

Chris Rawson of TUAW (an all-things-Apple site) begins his column today with this:

It's a brief Rumor Roundup this week, partly because there weren't many rumors out there, partly because motorcycle accident + four broken ribs + codeine = very difficult to write coherently. Remember, kids, the rubber parts of the motorcycle are the ones that go on the ground. The goal is to keep them there!

I think that's a great way to announce that he had an accident. It reminds me of when I was learning to drive as a kid. The guy who taught me was my best friend, a guy who was a few years older than me. He began my training by telling me:

"The basic idea is to make sure your car and another car don't occupy the same space at the same time." 

It was great advice that served me well. I never broke the golden rule.